  “Look at this cabin!” The lady cop’s voice was filled with consternation as she spoke. Florence and Tillie could only stand and stare. The lady cop’s room was a wreck. She had gone out before dawn; had been gone an hour, had picked up Florence and Tillie on her way back, and now this! Florence had never seen such a roomful of confusion. Table upside down, chairs overturned, clothing scattered everywhere, broken glass from the transom overhead, the canvas torn up, a gaping hole where the imitation ship’s hold was; such was the scene upon which she gazed in the utmost astonishment. “You know,” said Tillie in a tone that was both serious and solemn, “we girls didn’t do that.” “Of course not, child!” The lady cop laughed in spite of herself. “For all that, I know who did it. And soon enough they shall have their pay. “I know, too, what it was they wanted. And they—” The lady cop advanced to the center of the room to cast one glance to the void below, “and they got it!” “Wha—what was it they wanted?” Florence managed to stammer. She knew the answer, but wanted it from the lady cop’s lips. “My trunk.” “Your trunk! Why should they want that? It was—” She checked herself in time. The lady cop gave her a sharp look, but proceeded to answer her question as well as she might. “The truth is, I don’t know why they wanted that trunk,” she began. “They have wanted it for a long time. Now that they have it, I hope they are satisfied. I can get a tin one down at the store for a few dollars. And it, I hope, will contain no secrets.” “Secrets!” Florence wished to tell her own secret, that the mysterious trunk was safely locked up in a hunting cabin back in the woods where she and Tillie had carried it through the rain and the dark. She did not quite dare. “That trunk,” said the lady cop, up-ending a chair and dropping into it, “has been the most spooky thing you ever saw. “My cousin bought it for me at a police auction sale.” “A police auction sale!” Tillie stared at her hard. “Once a year the police department sells all the lost, stolen and unclaimed articles that have come into its keeping. You’d be surprised at the variety of articles sold there; electric drills, oriental rugs, watches, knives, burglars’ tools, suitcases full of silks—everything. “This trunk was in the sale. It was filled with a lot of worthless clothing. But my cousin bought it for me. It was such an unusual affair. Teakwood, heavy copper, walrus hide. You wouldn’t understand unless you saw it.” Florence and Tillie exchanged significant glances. “This cousin of mine is a queer chap,” the lady cop went on. “He’s always trying to break up superstitions. Belongs to a Thirteen Club formed in his academy days. Thirteen fellows lived in a building numbered 1313. Table always set for thirteen, whether they were all there or not. Such things as that. “Now every year on the thirteenth day of a month, Friday if possible, they have a banquet. Six of the thirteen are dead. Four met violent deaths. Yet they keep it up. Thirteen places set. Seven seats filled. Six vacant. “Makes you shudder to think of it. But he loves it. “He bought this trunk because a crook had owned it. That’s supposed to bring bad luck. “He hadn’t got half way home with it before someone dragged it off the truck. He crowned the fellow with half a brick and retrieved the trunk. “He took it home. That night he woke up to see it disappearing out of the window. When he fired a shot through the window the trunk paused in its journey and he took it back. “Then, because I am a policewoman, he presented it to me. And here—here it is not. They got it at last!” Once more the two girls exchanged glances. They said never a word. “Queerest part of it all is,” the lady cop concluded, “the thing was chuck empty! “But come on!” she exclaimed, springing up. “Let’s get this place straightened out. Then we’ll fry some bacon.” “Shall we tell her?” Tillie asked in a low tone as she and Florence walked down the little dock half an hour later. “I don’t know. Not just yet.” Florence’s face took on a puzzled look. “If that trunk has such wandering ways, perhaps it’s safer where it is. Does anyone go to that hunting shack?” “Not this time of year.” “And no one besides us knows where the trunk is, and we won’t tell.” “Cross my heart!” “See you this afternoon,” Tillie added. “We’re going fishing.” “Are we?” “You know it! Got to work this forenoon. Can go after dinner. And boy! Will there be fishing! “You know,” she added with all the wisdom of an old timer, “after a three days’ storm is the very best time to fish. When it is sunny and still, the fish lay round and get lazy; too lazy to eat. A storm stirs ’em up. Watch ’em bite this P. M. So long!” She went skipping away. |
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